The Bet
by Lone Tube Sock
Summary: AU. The storyline is along the same vein of the movie Cruel Intentions. Lilly is the infamous heir to the Truscott fortune. Miley, renowned good girl, transfers to Seaview Prep. A bet is made. LILEY!
1. Chapter 1

You'd assume I'd be able to afford happiness with all this money, but the truth of the matter is, and brace yourselves for this one… money _really_ can't buy happiness.

_Surprise_!

Oh, wait, I bet you knew that already. Well I didn't. That little nugget of wisdom served as a sobering blow during my later formative years. I mean, I could buy fleets of hulking airliners, enough luxury vehicles to span from coast to coast and back, a fucking country, even! Unattainable did not belong in my diction, but as I grew older, and that yawning piece of the puzzle stretched out wide, and wider still, until it felt like someone could stick their fist through my middle, and see their wriggling fingers through the other side, grudging fear shook the foundation of my make believe world. I was not invincible, and no matter how much I kicked, screamed, slapped, and bit, happiness would not be cheapened by my family's moldy money.

My grandpa used to tell me that happiness was kind of like a classy lady, chaste and impervious, and it would forever remain untouched, _especially_ by the superfluous Truscott fortune. He called it the Truscott curse. Privilege is fine in moderation, but get too much and it can feel like you're trapped in a snow globe. Sure, it's pretty, ideal, and only blizzards when you choose to shake the shit out of the thing, but it's too easy, too perfect, too predictable. I understood why grandpa blew his brains out. He put on his favorite cashmere robe, and ripped the trigger to Pacchierotti. I think he died with a smile on his face, but there's no way of telling because the remnants of his face looked like a pile of minced meat.

I don't blame him. Honestly, I've found that the only way to bare my insufferable life is to dilute it. Drugs are a nice avenue, but fucking, God, fucking feels a whole hell of a lot better. I guess it sets me apart from my family. While they prefer a deadening disconnection from reality, I want to feel alive. When you're fucking, there's that animalistic connection--warm, trembling flesh, those raw, guttural sounds, that lip-rounding, toe-curling, stomach churning, mind numbing release... Yeah, fucking is the way to go. No offense to Papa Truscott, but I'd rather kill myself with a show stopping orgasm than bite a bullet.

Fucking is what defines me. I'm sure if you stripped away my layers, shucked them back until you reached my essence or whatever the fuck it's called, there'd be this smoldering orb of unadulterated sexual energy, no joke. If you're into sentimental bullshit, I guess you'd call my passion an art form.

I just finished up with Janice. She's lying on my bed, already half-asleep. I'm sitting by the bay window, looking at the moon, and puffing on a cigarette. You know how there's that nasty crash after a drug binge that _almost_ makes you want to say screw this fix to begin with? I get the equivalent right after sex; I like to call it the anti-fuck. My nerves itch, and my stomach feels like it wants to eat itself, maybe puke. Usually I'd throw my last lay out of bed, and pursue a new one, but tonight is different. It's probably because the moon looks particularly close, like I could easily lasso it in and touch it, maybe even mount the damn thing and ride it off into space. I close my eyes and bask in the pale embers. The moon is my only comfort, and tonight it tells me something will change. Does that sound stupid, or what? I let myself soak it in because I know it won't last, and then light another cigarette.

School is a joke. It's just a social networking watering hole for the succeeding uppercrust. We will all be accepted into prominent colleges, whether or not our academic records and test scores are any indication. More often than not, our parents are alumni of said prospective colleges, and have cut the institutes beefy checks to fund new dormitories or departments. We'll earn degrees, but they'll be as meaningless as blue ribbons or Girl Scout badges because in the end, we'll have jumped through all those hoops to earn our respective parents bragging rights at _their_ social networking watering holes.

Seaview Preparatory School is the biggest joke of all. It's the Ivy League of private schools, and a single year of tuition could buy you a house or two depending on the real estate. The school is surrounded by impossibly high stone walls, and a towering wrought iron gate at the center. The school itself looks like a fortress, complete with vines snaking down the sides, and intertwined with the intricate trelliswork. We've got all the standard school amenities, and then some.

Social footings are doled out based on family net worth, and guess who's king of the jungle? That's right, baby, yours truly. Fortunately, I could give a rat's ass about the pre-established food chain, call me secure or whatever. I know a couple of people that would beg me to bleed them out with leeches (or much worse for that matter) just to have a taste of my life for one day. Doesn't that notion make you absolutely sick?

I'm sitting in Mrs. Hershing's class right now. We're supposed to be typing up reports on our school issued laptops. I'm in the far right corner, and Oliver's somewhere in front. We both look like we're diligently at work, but we're really chatting.

SmokinOken: Have you heard the news?

Truscott: If by news you mean William Bailey walking in on Dean Pollock giving it to Mrs. Hershing up the ass, then yes.

SmokinOken: Ew, Jesus effing Christ! When?

Truscott: _Yawn._ Last Tuesday, Oken. It's practically antique. Are you going to tell me this news, or should I spare myself the boredom and gouge my own eyeballs out?

SmokinOken: Fuck, Lilly, will you please take a Quaalude already? For the sake of humanity! Is Aunt Flow getting ready to make her monthly visit, or did you just wake up bitchier than usual? LOL.

Truscott: …

SmokinOken: Right. So the news percolating around campus is that our new arrival will be making her grand entrance this week. A little someone by the name of Miley Stewart.

Truscott: Miley Stewart… why does that name sound familiar?

SmokinOken: Because she's only like Miss Virginity '08 and spokes girl for all things good and pure. She was on the cover of Teen Queen, Teen Vogue, Teen People, Sweetie Magazine, and Heartbeat. She had that big spread on values, morals, and the importance of saving herself, blah, blah, _snoooore_.

Truscott: I remember. How fucking precious. At least she's forthright about being a tease.

SmokinOken: LOL. The news gets better. There's a couple of guys wagering on who can get into her pants first. The pot is huge. It sounds like something right up your alley.

Truscott: I don't know…

SmokinOken: Oh, come on, Truscott! Don't get mad, ok? The truth is… I've already laid big money on you. You can't let me down! My pride and manliness is riding on this bet. Please, please, please?

Truscott: Oliver, you presumptuous bitch! Why don't you just sign yourself up?

SmokinOken: _Puh-lease_! You and I both know that I don't stand a fucking chance.

Truscott: I'll think about it. _Shit_. Hershing's coming. TTYL.


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver and I sit at our regular lunch table. He's sipping on green tea and using chop sticks to pop bits of sashimi and mini rice balls into his mouth. He alternates dipping the raw fish in wasabi and soy sauce. I don't think he chews his food. I just poke at my plate, sulking over the ever-expanding hole in my chest, and whether or not I'd ever earn a respite from it. _Ick_. Does that sound emo, or what? "Oliver," I sigh, reluctant but desperate for the assurance only a best friend can provide. My voice is a whisper. "I think I'm building a tolerance to sex. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me! I hate to sound like an uninspired cliche, but there's this void inside. Does that sound stupid?" I'm sure my expression conveys utmost seriousness, but Oliver just laughs and wipes imaginary tears from his eyes.

"Good one," he says, signaling a cafeteria server over with obnoxious finger snaps. The woman scurries to our table with her cart, and Oliver picks out two saucers. She looks intimidated. Most of the workers do. "What's this?" he asks, holding the dish close to his nose.

"I believe that's sea urchin."

Oliver shrugs, and lifts it into his mouth. "That's not bad," he mumbles, fishing out another piece.

I'm glowering at him, but between the sea urchin, eel, and whatever fuck else sea creature he's swallowing down, he's paying me no mind. "I'm serious." _Fuck it._ "You're a shitty best friend, you know that? I come to you in my time of crisis, and you laugh at me. Real encouraging, Oken. You can go right ahead and keep stuffing your face. I need a smoke."

_Fuck Oliver_. That's my mantra as I suck down the cigarette. The idiot tried running after me to apologize, but I didn't want his second hand pity so _fuck Oliver_ it is. I don't feel like sticking around for the rest of my classes. I climb into my car, and take my cigarette to-go. I take the lazy scenic route all the way to my Aunt Lucille's estate. She's got an impressive vinery and a world-class stock of horses on her property. Aunt Luce is a sweet older woman with a penchant for young foreign men. She keeps them employed as ranch hands, servers, gardeners, pool boys, you name it.

I pull up beside the water fountain at the center of her driveway. Her house looks like an old plantation. It's a pristine white color, and loaded with mammoth columns. Georgio, her favorite employee sees me and waves. He's shirtless and hanging off a ladder, shearing hedges.

I push past the French doors and wander around, looking for anyone that knows where I can find my Aunt. Before long, I'm in the kitchen. Abbey, resident cook going on two decades, tastes a batch of something on the stove. She catches me and winks. "It's been weeks since you've been around, girl! I just pulled chocolate chip muffins out the oven. Help yourself," she greets me, wrapping me in a hug. She's a round, maternal woman with curly blonde hair and warm eyes. I give her a genuine smile, and help myself to a gooey muffin.

"Thanks, Abbey. Where's Aunt Luce?" I nibble on the sweet treat, and hop onto the marble countertop.

"Showing our guest around."

"What guest?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, girl, I thought you knew," she laughs, and adds a pinch of something to the pot. It smells good. "Miley somethin' or other, you know I ain't too good with names. Aunt Luce is good pals with the girl's pops. She'll be staying here until school lets out."

_Great._ How many Mileys could there be in the world? The fates were against me. I'm sure Oliver would use this weird coincidence to twist my arm until it snapped. I finish the muffin, and lick a chocolate chip smudge off my finger. "I'm going to go look for her," I grumble, sliding down the counter. Abbey wishes me luck and makes me promise to come back and play a round of card games. I happily oblige. She's been my Mary Poppins figure since I was in diapers.

After scouring a chunk of the enormous property, I realize that my efforts are futile. I'm in the indoor pool area, bone dry and sitting on a floating chair. The pool is Olympic sized and temperature adjustable, but I'm not in the mood for swimming. I just like the ambiance. My eyes are closed, and a record is blasting from the speakers. My hands dip into the water every so often to steer me in one direction or another.

I hear the heavy doors open, along with two sets of footsteps. The noises echo. I don't open my eyes, figuring the intruders will make themselves known. "Lilly!" It's my Aunt's voice. She sounds pleasantly surprised. "Lilly, is that you? Come out of there and give me a hug!"

I crack one eye open, focusing on the two figures ahead of me, and then the other. That Miley girl is standing behind my Aunt. She looks a little timid, but confident at the same time. My eyes take her in. She's absolutely beautiful. Long, flowing brown hair, beautiful legs, and I bet that when I get close enough to see her eyes, they'll be pretty too. I turn my attention back to my Aunt, and give her a big cheesy grin. Too cheesy maybe because Miley looks like she's trying hard to contain an eye flutter. I paddle to the edge of the pool, and carefully climb out.

My Aunt always smells like earthy, anti-aging cream, and this overpowering granny perfume. She buys the stuff in bulk from a Chinese medicine man. It makes my nose tickle, and I almost sigh in relief when she lets me go. She puts one hand on Miley's shoulder, and the other on mine as she introduces us, "Lilly, this is Miley Stewart, Robbie Ray's daughter. You remember him, don't you? In fact, I think you two met when you were little girls," she bites her lip, eyes lighting up with a memory, and laughs, "Yes, I think Lilly threw a fit because you got to ride the pony that she wanted to. She smashed a piece of cake into your pretty dress."

Miley's eyes widen. "The yellow one, with the lace and the ruffles," she gasps.

I grab at the back of my neck, embarrassed, remembering the incident. I got chocolate cake in her pretty curls too. I remember the look on her face. Her big blue eyes had gotten rounder, and slick with tears. I got a dirty feeling as soon as I saw that look. It was the first time I truly felt guilty about any misdeed I'd done. This couldn't be that same little girl? "I was 6," I try to defend myself, even though I really want to apologize.

Miley just laughs after a minute. "I forgive you," she says, good-naturedly, half meaning it, and half joking.

It's crazy, but this girl makes me feel something that I've never felt before, and it unnerves me. I just want to leave, clear my head, suck down a whole box of cigarettes. My Aunt asks me to show Miley around the rest of her house, but I decline, making something up about a school deadline, promising to come back another day. Soon enough, my feet are carrying me away from Miley and those uncomfortable feelings. I start to feel grounded again, and once I'm in the safety of my car, I press my forehead to the steering wheel and laugh.

What the fuck's wrong with me?


	3. Chapter 3

I'm lying on a bench in the school courtyard. The sun's been nothing but one relentless assault since its first appearance, and my oversized shades are doing little to protect me from the harsh glare. There's a shortage of fluffy, imagination-inspiring clouds in the sky. The few that are out just kind of look like cheese doodles. I feel a sigh well up in my chest, but before it can escape, Oliver's big head comes into view, creating an overcast. "What?" I growl, squinting through my sunglasses. I'm still pissed at him.

"I know you're fuming," he starts. _Duh._ "You're totally entitled to ignoring my existence, but I just want you to know that I'm really, really sorry. I came off as a jerk without intending to. I mean, you're like this ice queen, an emblematic cold-blooded Truscott, and suddenly you have feelings, and not the shallow lusty kinds or whatever, but genuine ones. It just didn't add up. I thought you were kidding," he goes quiet, and brings a disposable coffee cup into my line of sight. It's got the school mascot on it. "Latte? I told Jake Ryan that my grandma was in the hospital so that he'd let me skip him in the coffee line. I think that kid is in remedial classes, or something. That's like the oldest trick in the book."

As much as I hate to admit it, Oliver is right. I try to favor his perspective as I re-rationalize the situation. I've conducted myself like some soulless machine my entire life, and out of the fucking blue I'm breakable and human? I decide to ease up on Oliver's sentence, but robot or not, I let him know there was no excuse for his insensitivity

"Two pumps of vanilla?" I ask. That's a trick question.

He nods, and I can see relief flood across his face. I snatch the latte. "For future reference, because I know you're susceptible to cosmic fuck ups, I like three," I say, wiggling three fingers at him as I sip on the drink.

He rolls his eyes, and clears his throat, signaling that he's about to say something uncharacteristic. "I'm not going to pressure you into that stupid bet," he sighs, ringing his hands. "I jumped the gun, and I shouldn't have." He hangs his head.

"When the hell did you grow up? Or did a fortune cookie tell you to do it?"

Oliver's comeback dies at the back his throat as we both catch Miley Stewart entering the courtyard. She's wearing a flattering selection of customary Seaview Prep duds: a collared button-up, plaid skirt, and a pair of knee high socks. Polly Hernandez, long-lived teacher's pet and president of the welcome committee, is with her, presumably giving her a tour. She looks a little awkward, like a fish out of water, or a newly unveiled zoo exhibit. Everyone else seems to be watching her too, either sizing her up, mentally undressing her, or just blatantly curios.

Polly's yacking away. Her mouth hasn't stopped moving since they've been out there. Sun beams are deflecting off her braces, undoubtedly blinding Miley. Poor Miley tries to act like she's fully engrossed in the shit Polly's spouting. I bet she's giving her a run down of Seaview Prep's extra curricular milieu, maybe even trying to recruit her into a club. I almost want to tug her out of there, but force myself to resist the nagging urge. I still haven't told Oliver that Miley's staying at my Aunt's.

Miley's eyes dart around the courtyard as Polly points things out. Her eyes come into contact with me, and they immediately light up. I think mine do the same, and I'm instantly relieved that my shades are on. She waves, and for a second I don't want to wave back, but before I can indulge the asshole in me, my hand's up in the air. My wave is tardy and subtle, but seems to placate her because she smiles. I give her one back, and as she takes a step towards me, Polly's hand clamps around her arm and tugs her in a different trail. Miley looks frustrated, but follows Polly's direction. She glances back at me, offering an apologetic frown.

I turn to Oliver, who looks like he's got a million questions, and shut him up with two firm words, "I'm in."

He's confused. I can see it in his eyes. They're always pliable and eager to be read, like a slutty library book. "You're in?" He asks slowly, as if he's blanked out on a nonexistent conversation, and then realization dawns on him. He jumps up, ecstatic. "You mean the bet! You're in? Yes! You're in! That's great! I've got to go tell Skipper, he's the one orchestrating this whole thing. I'll see you in Calc though!" He gives me a tight, you-won't-regret-this type of hug and skips off, practically coming in his pants. "You're the best, Lil! Woo!"

I want to get close to her without actually getting close to her. Kind of like those wildlife documentary filmmakers. I want to discretely sweep in and examine her from afar. Any wildlife documentary filmmaker could tell you that interfering with the subject could lead to things like lost limbs, trampled camera equipment, the extinction of an entire species, or worse yet, one mangled Lilly-shaped heart. I'll admit that pursuing her on the cold, pre-established terms of this stupid bet is fucked up. But as pathetic as it sounds, it's the only way I know how to get close to someone. Aside from the effort I put into chasing and bedding girls, romance and intimacy are foreign concepts.

I've got my mp3 player on and I'm tapping my pen on the desk, waiting for class to begin. Oliver has yet to arrive. The door opens and Miley walks in. She doesn't see me right away. I straighten up a little. _Be cool. Be cool._ She hands Mr. Larkin a slip, and he welcomes her to take any seat. I shut my eyes, concentrating on the drum solo. _Be cool. Be coo_—

Something touches my arm, and the pen flies out of my hand. _Shit_. I open my eyes and see that the projectile has hit Mr. Larkin. _Double shit_. He waggles a finger at me, and I yank the ear buds out and quickly apologize. The grumpy wrinkles in his forehead smooth out, and he tosses the pen at me with a warning. I look to my right, where Miley's seated with her hands over her mouth. "I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to startle you."

I want to snap at her, but my tongue's being considerate. "You didn't mean it," I repeat. "How's the school been treating you?"

"Surprisingly well," she admits. "I was expecting…" she purses her lips, trailing off, fishing for a polite substitute of what she really wants to say. I know what she means.

"Bratty rich kids?" I help her.

"Yeah!" She glances at her painted fingernails, and giggles sheepishly. A couple strands of hair fall against her face, and she tucks them back. "I mean--" she stutters, looking pained, realizing she's put both feet in her mouth.

I lean in towards her, sparing her the agony of providing an explanation. "Allow me to disillusion you, Cinderella. Don't let your guard down just yet. Everyone here is big on ideal first impressions. Remember, we bratty rich kids have been cued on all things etiquette-appropriate and polite since our pill-popping Mothers squeezed us out. Your first assumption was correct, don't let it go. Once you've been here for a while, and you begin to blend in with the scenery, you'll get boring and people will stop being so smiley and accommodating."

She opens her mouth, closes it, and faces the front of the classroom. I lean back in my seat, immediately regretting my harsh tone. Oliver saunters in, giving me a thumbs up as he claims the desk in front of me. He nods his head at Miley. "I'm Oliver. Oliver Oken," he introduces, sticking his hand out.

Miley takes it and smiles. "Miley Stewart."

"It's a pleasure. You've met Lilly?" He makes a sweeping hand gesture towards me, like a game show model showcasing a car. "Hey, you should sit with us at lunch. We'll fill you in. I guarantee our introduction to Seaview Prep will be a lot more engaging than Polly Hernandez's. Please say you'll join us?" Oliver lets his bottom lip flop forward, and Miley giggles.

"Alright," she says, but her eyes dart towards me, searching for something. Approval, maybe.

"Good," he sighs. "I'm excited. Aren't you excited?" I can see him grit his teeth. He's really trying to win Miley over for me. I wish he wouldn't. "Lilly?" His voice almost cracks.

I lick my lips, taking my sweet time. He can wait for a response, and so can she as far as I'm concerned. I offer Miley a cheesy grin, like the one I gave my Aunt, and this time she lets her eyes roll back. Her resistance makes my heart beat a little faster. I love a challenge. "Enthused."

The bell rings, and we don't speak to each other for the duration of the class.

We're occupying our usual table with Miley in tow. Oliver's busy pointing other tables out. "You see that group over there? The one with the blonde guy," he says, gesturing in the general direction with his fork. "Not the tubby blonde guy, but the kid who's got a grimace on his face like he's got a stick or something shoved up his ass?"

Miley glances over in a stealthy manner.

"Well," he continues, "Those are the new money kids. Their parents are either very lucky, or self-made. They stick out like sore thumbs due to the way they accessorize. _Way_ too much bling," he points out the excessive jewelry weighing down their arms and necks, and then explains, "They try to overcompensate for the fact that they're only one winning lottery ticket away from trailer trash. Self-respecting old money kids never resort to pony shows. No one likes a blatant brag."

I watch Miley eat her yogurt. She's thoroughly captivated by Oliver's run down. I can tell she wants to laugh at certain characterizations, but she's too genuinely refined to let herself. After Oliver's finished a decent portion of his tutorial, he picks up his falafel and takes a bite. "This is good," he grunts.

I just shrug, and take a sip of my water. The school only serves pretentious glass-bottle mineral water. Personally, I don't care for it. "Where does that leave you two?" asks Miley, breaking the thoughtful silence.

"What do you mean?" Oliver's brows are furrowed.

"You've made everyone else's place clear, except your own," notes Miley. "So where do you two stand?" How perceptive of her.

Oliver laughs dismissively. He gives me a look that says _is she kidding_? "We're the royal court," he says finally. "The oldest, most abundant money there is. Lilly and I, respectively. The Truscott's have got the deepest pockets in the country, I'm sure even you must know that." His tone is airy and prideful, but not overbearingly so.

Miley gives me a cheeky grin, like she's got me figured out. "You're wrong, you know," I shoot, disillusioning her for the second time today. "Whatever you're thinking is wrong."

Miley's about to frame a rebuttal, but untimely Janice saunters over. She's making moon eyes at me and twirling a strand of her pale blonde hair. "You still haven't called me," she heralds it like a news anchor announcing a breaking headline. The girl is hopeless. I've given her the brush off at least a dozen times. She looks over at Oliver and waves with her index finger, and then over at Miley. Her face instantly sours. I imagine she's trying to dissect the nature of our relationship. I've never invited anyone to sit with Oliver and I. "Who are you?" she asks, not out of curiosity, but out of pure territorial interest.

"Janice, please," I interrupt. "I have a brutal French exam coming up, and Miley's tutoring me. I'll tell you what, in the event that I ace this test, why don't you and I go out to celebrate?" I grab her hand, and use a finger to paint lazy circles along her palm. She's practically swooning. "I discovered this quant little Thai place over the weekend. The atmosphere was breathtaking… sensual and serene. I immediately thought of you."

"You're so sweet," she gushes, batting her eyes. "Okay. I'll let you off the hook. For now! Call me later though," she pleads.

I nod, and she slowly retreats. Oliver just grins at me through a mouthful of falafa. Miley's a little harder to decipher. I can't tell what she's thinking, and she hasn't given me any verbal indications either. It's making me uncomfortable, so I opt to run. "Cigarette break, anyone?" I chide.

Oliver shakes his head, and Miley does the same. I sigh in relief and scram. I ditch the rest of the day in favor of my Aunt Luce's again. On the drive over, I decide that I want Miley all to myself.

I spend the time waiting for Miley's arrival with Abbey. I help her make gumbo and biscuits, and we talk, entertaining random topics as they come. When I finally manage to excuse myself, I realize that Miley's arrival is well overdue, and settle on taking a stroll through the property in search of her. I find her sitting in the gazebo area, reading a book. She's changed out of her school clothes, and her hair is now trussed up in a pony tail. "_Atlas Shrugged_," I sigh, recognizing the book cover. "Do you like that book? Personally, I think Ayn Rand's work is pretentious crap."

Miley laughs. "It's hard to believe that _you _of all people can find something pretentious." She says it lightly, but it's an attack.

"Ouch," I hiss in an over-the-top kind of way. "Just what exactly are you trying to say?" I'm not a doughnut. I just want to hear her say it.

She closes the book, and looks me square in the eye. They're smoldering. I think they're burning holes right through me. "That you, Lilly Truscott, are one of the most pretentious people I've ever met. And no, I'm not a fan. It's required reading for my Literature class."

"Good," I laugh, trying to shrug off the stinging sensation her words have induced. "You being keen on bad literature would have been such a turn off."

She pulls a face. "Turning you on is not high on my priority list." Her tone is icy.

"Fortunately for you, turning you on is high on mine," I counter.

She rolls her eyes, and for a moment her flippantness offends me. "Good luck with that." She re-opens the book.

"Oh, that's right," I gasp. "I almost forgot that you're incapable of feeling. I mean, you act so normal. Geppetto would be proud."

"What are you talking about?"

"I've read your magazine spread. Why the coy routine all of the sudden? You seemed entirely eager to bare your pristine little soul to Teen Queen, and those other teeny bopper rags." My grin is wide and impenetrable. I'm on a fucking roll and I don't know how to stop. I step closer to her. "I don't know what's so special about you." I'm eyeing her up and down. "I've been wracking my brain and wracking my brain. I just can't figure it out. I mean, you sound like any other frigid prude. Change the face, and you'd be indistinguishable."

She winces like I've reached out and slapped her. Tears are welling in her eyes, and she quickly climbs onto her feet and walks away. My grin falters, and once she's out of sight it crumbles away altogether. I pull out a cigarette, and light it. I welcome the poison. I want it to choke out the miserable feeling I've got marinating in my gut. For once in my life, I think I might have said too much.


	4. Chapter 4

During my smoke, I give myself a pep talk, and upon stubbing out my second cigarette, I've convinced myself to go against my M.O. and apologize. I don't know about the rest of the world, but saying 'I'm sorry' is not on my list of effortless feats. I've been wired to regard the phrase as a plague of sorts, something that should be avoided at all costs. I can hear my grandpa's gruff voice in the back of my head, "Don't apologize, Lillian, it's unbecoming." He'd say it with a wink, but mean every syllable. Once upon a time, I took his advice to heart, eradicating the restrictive nature of regret and 'I'm sorry' altogether.

I'm outside her guest room. My fist hovers over the door, and freezes. It's done this twice already. At this rate, I'm not sure if I'll ever get around to apologizing. I hear a faint scraping sound, like a chair being drug across the wooden floor, and then a meek, "I can see your shadow." Miley sounds miserable, and my guilt balloons.

"It's me." Is that my voice? I sound so dainty.

There's silence, and then Miley says, softer still, "Go away."

"I'm…," my throat clams up. I crack my fingers. "Can I come in?"

"Go away. I'm not in a fraternizing kind of mood." She's snarky.

"Miley, _please_?" I'm begging, like an animal. _Begging. Me._ My words are strained. If she doesn't let me in soon, I'll look like a flaming moron. No girl is worth this embarrassment! I'd rather be arrogant than some sad display of anecdotal teenage angst.

The silence is just long enough to make my shoulders slump in defeat. The door clicks open a crack. "Come in then," she sighs.

I push past the threshold. She's situated on the bed with her hands in her lap. She's ringing them. Her eyes are cutting through me. I briefly register a flinch. "What do you want?" It's an absent question. We both know she could give a fuck about what I want, or so I imagine. Honestly, I can't tell what she's thinking.

I run my fingers through my hair, and stare at the ground, feeling like a petulant child that's been reprimanded. Feeling _ashamed_. It's a disgusting sensation, one that I don't think I'll ever forget even if I never experience it again. "I just," I start. "I want to… I'm…" Well shit. This is no good.

Miley gets it. I can tell because her eyes are smiling. I'm taken aback by their lack of jeer. "You're what?" She's trying to coax it out of me, encouragingly… patiently. Although my marked attempt is admirable as is, she won't settle for a half-assed stab.

"I'm…" _God!_ "It's difficult," I try to buy myself some time, some nerve. "I've never said this to someone before, and actually meant it... Miley, I'm… I'm _sorry_." And there it is, out of the fucking gate and over the finish line! I thought my head might explode or rotate a full circle like that little girl from the _Exorcist_, but you know what? It doesn't feel half bad. In fact, I feel a little airier.

Miley's face lights up. "Thank you," she whispers. "That means a lot to me."

I peek up at her, and she laughs. "What?" I ask. I'm pouting.

"You look like a puppy dog right about now." Her laughs get richer. The sound is enthralling. I think it's marketable. If it was recorded in one of those pull-string dolls, I'd invest in stocks.

"I do not."

The laughter crests, and breaks into a somber tension. "Can I tell you a secret?" She sounds unsure, like maybe she's thinking that entrusting me with secrets is a rash and dim-witted idea. It might be.

I nod, elated at the prospect of hearing one of her secrets. "Sure." _Tell me all of them._

She cocks her head to the side, taking time to frame her words correctly, "You intrigue me."

If it was any other girl, I'd have taken that as my cue to kiss her. Ravenously. I could see us on that disheveled bed, bare and intertwined. I'd lick up every trace of her cherry lip gloss. Her lips would give way to the sweetest gut-wrenching moans and her pretty face would twist up in the purest of pleasures. It's all one hot blur. I remind myself that she's not any other girl, and a part of me is relieved. "You intrigue me too," I admit. My admission probably sounds like some lame con. It isn't.

She licks her lips and announces, "I won't sleep with you." Her cheeks are slightly rosied. How curious_._

As telling as her announcement is, it's unexpected and I can't help the giggle that bubbles out. "Okay."

She frowns. Maybe she didn't get the reaction she wanted, but maybe I'm wrong. I don't have much to go on. "I'm serious," she insists.

"And I said okay." I bite my lip. "If you want my honest opinion, it sounds like you're trying to convince yourself more than you're trying to convince me." I can feel a smug grin working its way onto my face.

"I don't want your honest opinion." She picks up her book and finds her place, and I know I'm about to be dismissed. "Good night, Lilly."

"Good night."

The rest of the school week passes by in a haze. Oliver's plate has been too congested with school work to play, and Miley's been cordial, but distant. I don't like it. It's the weekend, and her time as a recluse is up, whether she likes it or not.

We're having a civil, if entirely uninteresting, dinner. Aunt Luce is at a gala with Georgio. "Let's do something," I say, using a finger to trace the rim of my glass.

"Like what?"

"Let's go to a club."

She rolls her eyes, nonplussed. "We're underage."

I can't help but smile at her naivety. It's endearing. I think it annoys her. "I'm a Truscott." I'm satisfied with my explanation. It's a loaded statement.

"You're also a law breaker." She folds her arms across her chest. "I refuse to participate."

"God, you're uptight!" I know she hates it when I wield those types of words. Spiting her just makes me feel all gooey inside. In my defense, I told her that I'd stop as soon as she drops the goody-two-shoes persona. My jab makes her eyes sparkle with fire, and knowing that I'm accountable for that heat sends a thrill down my spine. I wonder if she'll ever bite.

"I'm done with this conversation."

I block her when she tries to leave. "Okay," I sigh. "You win."

She takes a side step and I'm right there with her. Her arms fold across her chest. "Move." She's stern.

"Don't you want to claim your prize?" _C'mon, Miley, give me something to work with!_ I want to yell it out, but hope that my insistence is conveying just that. O…kay…We're obviously not telepathically linked because she just blinks at me. I take the initiative again, breaking the silence. "You've won the pleasure of my company for the entire weekend. I'm serious, whatever you want, wherever you want me, I'm there. Even if that means planting trees, reading to geriatrics, rescuing babies from burning buildings, feeding bums, rallying against the evils of the Wal-Mart Corporation, you name it."

She cracks a hint of a smile. It's barely recognizable, but there. _Thank God_. I think my sigh is heard around the world. "Okay. You can come down to the Humane Society with me tomorrow morning."

"The Humane Society?" Are you fucking kidding me?

"Did I stutter?" She brushes past me, but stops at the doorway to say, "Be up by 6," and then she disappears.

It smells like piss and wet fur. Fear too, I suppose. If fear had a smell, it'd smell like the kennels in the Humane Society. I've been mucking them out for the past hour. Miley took off with Polly Hernandez minutes after we got here. I've concluded that Polly is the person single-handedly responsible for this sordid foray. She'd put Miley up to this, I know it. I could kill the bitch.

I'm not particularly fond of animals in general, let alone fond enough of them to voluntarily pick up their shit. Maybe Polly doesn't deserve the entire rap. I'm starting to think Miley's toying with me. When Polly approached us, Miley bit her lip to keep from laughing at my slack jawed expression. I know sheer amusement when I see it. Her smile was a little wider, and her greeting was a hell of a lot peppier than usual. For a second, as she walked away and tossed me an over the shoulder glance, I caught sass in her eyes. I don't know what she's thinking. I happen to be the queen of mind fucks, and this game's no different from any other because I intend on winning.

"Lilly?" It's Miley.

I stop what I'm doing. She's standing by the open gate. "Yeah?" I ask, coolly.

"Someone's going to take over this job for you. We need your help at the grooming station."

_Screw you!_ I flash the corniest tight lipped smile I can muster considering the circumstances and follow her out. Yeah, they need my help at the grooming station. My dumb fucking masochistic ass. I'm the only one here! Miley pointed to a rack of aprons and rubber gloves, and then at the Saint Bernard in the tub, and left.

I really wish I had some goggles.

The dog's wriggling around like a greased pig. Its tongue is flopping all over the place, and no matter how many times I scrub at its chin, foamy goops of slobber keep making a comeback. I'm up to my neck in suds. The saturated apron is weighing me down, and possibly acting as a contributing factor to a near future of coldlike symptoms.

Once I'm done drying the beast, some other volunteer appears with a scraggly little mutt. This keeps happening until I've polished at least a dozen dogs and puppies because that's when Miley reappears. This time she needs my help petting dogs and cats. She leads me to another room, and points to a specific cat carrier. "Start with Diablo."

Diablo? "Diablo?" Hm. I wonder why they call him that…

_MEEERRRRRREEEOOOOWWWRRRRR_R! What the fuck?

As soon as I get close enough to peer inside, it jabs a paw out through the wire mesh—claws fully unfurled and thirsty for blood. Fuck! The demon cat hisses at me. The cage hops and rattles with its brute force. I swear it's foaming at the mouth!

_MRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOWWWWWRRRRRRR! SSSSSSSSSSS!_

I gulp and look back at Miley. She's leaning casually against the wall, totally stone-faced. She only motions for me to proceed. _Fine._ I turn back around and crack my knuckles. I _will _win this game! Even if I have to bathe 300 more dogs, or shovel up another month's worth of shit! Even if I have to lube up rectal thermometers and take temperatures myself.

I.

Will.

Win.

I brace myself and unlock the cage in one fluid motion. Diablo launches out like a furry, orange torpedo and latches onto my shoulder. All I can register is stinging pain. His claws are completely embedded in my skin, and he's making the screechiest, most demented cat noises in my ear. I feel myself gasp. I want to choke the cat. I want to wrap my hands around its crazy little head and choke it. Choke it dead. But I don't. Mainly because Miley's watching. I deserve a medal. Hell, I deserve 10 medals. I would adopt this cat just to tie it in a sack and drown it. Maybe I will.

"Oh my God," breathes Miley as she rushes over to help me. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think—," she bites her lip and wraps her hands around Diablo. She gives him a solid tug which just makes him squiggle and reach his claws in deeper. She yanks at him again.

"Fuck," I gasp. "Allow me to point out the obvious, Miley, _that_ is clearly not working!"

"I'm sorry! I'll go get Polly," she stammers.

"Yeah, you go do that," I yell after her. Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you, _and this fucking cat_!

I clench my jaw and do my best to withstand the pain. Before long, Miley's running back in with Polly. There's a whole crew of volunteers trailing behind them. The volunteers quickly form a circle around me. They mostly whisper, and gasp, and point. I feel like Diablo and I are the spectacles of some schoolyard brawl. Even Polly's giving me a glazed, deer in the headlights look. "Can you hurry the fuck up already?" I growl, snapping her out of her daze.

"Sorry," she mumbles. She raids through some drawers and snatches up a bundle of catnip. She holds it up to Diablo's face; waving it around, making sure he catches a nice waft. The cat immediately directs its attention to the substance. Its eyes are bugged out like a junkie's. I guess the stuff is the feline equivalent of crack. Diablo lets up on his grip. Polly tosses the bundle into his cage, and he quickly leaps inside. _Hook, line, and sinker!_ Polly slams the gate shut. It's all so dramatic. For a second, I think the room will burst into applause, but it passes.

My shirt's peppered with cat hair. The fabric covering my shoulder is shredded and smeared with generous dollops of blood. The volunteers are still staring at me. "Don't you have some dog shit to pick up?" I'm menacing. They quickly scatter. Soon Miley and I are alone again.

"I'm so sorry," she says, trying her hardest to suppress a laugh. Like I said, I know amusement when I see it, or more accurately, when it takes a dump on me.

I suppose the whole situation did border on ridiculous. I mean, how many people can claim that they've been attacked by a cat-shaped Satan incarnate? The pissed off feelings give way to hysterical laughter, and my body trembles with the maniacal noise. Miley joins in, and suddenly I feel a hell of a lot better.


	5. Chapter 5

I guilt-trip Miley into letting me take her to the seasonal carnival. Carnivals are supposed to be wholesome and thrilling in a puritan approved kind of way, right? I figure I'll get more out of her if she's in her element. Plus, what's not to love about pukey rides, face painting, and endless opportunities to win rinky dink, sweatshop labored prizes? I happen to be game booth master, and fuck the crass connotations associated with deep-fried Twinkies, I'm having one. _Maybe._

We're sitting across from each other in a Ferris wheel cart. The ride itself is pretty lofty. Staring down at the ground for too long makes me woozy. Miley's been appraising me for some time. The carnival lights are bouncing off her, making her glow like an ethereal beauty queen. "Tell me something about yourself," she says.

I know where this is going. She wants something succulent and deep-seated. "Alright," I sigh. "When I was a kid, I wanted to be a ring leader. I figured the ring leader was like the carnie mob boss."

"Cute. I bet all the girls fall for the endearing childhood anecdote. I wasn't born yesterday, Lilly. Try again." Miley never ceases to amaze me.

"I really like you," I admit, embarrassed that I've been caught in a cheap ploy. "I've never really liked anyone before." I'm holding her eyes captive with mine. We sit in silence until the ride stops to let us out.

I'm standing in line at a concession stand. Miley wanted to watch the magic show, and somewhere between a levitation act and those brief semi-conscious vestiges right before sleep, I managed to catch myself and offer to go on a snack run. Hell, I would have volunteered to go over every booth with a fresh coat of paint to get out of watching the agonizing act. They should have called the guy Master Magician Boredom.

"Lilly!" hollers Oliver from somewhere behind me. I know that boy's voice like a mother penguin knows her baby's.

I don't bother acknowledging Oliver because it only encourages him. "Lilly," he repeats, closer this time. His hand grips my shoulder, and his grinning face is in line with my peripheral vision. "I didn't know you were coming!"

"I didn't know you were coming either. If I had, I would have gone somewhere else." I'm smirking, but my words ring true.

Oliver, ever the opportunist, cuts in and orders an elephant ear. "I'm here with Cassandra," he explains, leaning against the counter. "How about you?"

I can't tell Oliver I'm here with Miley. He'll carry on like a hormonal baboon, make tactless sexual innuendos, allude to the bet, and flat out inquire about any progress. I won't allow him to cheapen our night with his idiocy.

"What makes you think I'm here with anyone?" I stall.

"Come on now. Give me some credit. You're not exactly the type to seek solitude at some deprived carnival."

"Maybe I was in the mood for a caramel apple, Oken," I sigh. "There's no substitute for the real thing."

"What are you hiding?"

I'm set on lying to him, but Miley pops up out of nowhere, inconveniencing the bullshit spiel I had in mind. Oliver gives me an exaggerated wink, but I don't think Miley's even caught on to Oliver because her eyes are all adorably wide and she's gushing, "Oh my God, you have to watch the rest of this show! I'm so glad there's an intermission. I know you thought the first 10 minutes were lame, and rightfully so, but it's seriously picked up momentum. I have no idea where the magician keeps pulling animals and assistants out from, but I can't stop watching. I don't think I could stop watching even if the person next to me caught on fire, really. I hope he makes decent pay because he deserves it, although he should really work on his opening act—Oliver?" The mood shifts. Her face scrunches up.

"Hey," he greets. "Small world, huh?" He throws some cash on the counter, and picks up his elephant ear. "I have to get back to my date, but you two should join us for drinks later. How about we meet up by the fun house in 3 hours?"

"I don't know—" I start.

Miley interjects before I can finish, "Sure!" Her reaction surprises us both.

Oliver grins deviously. "Well, alright! See you two then." He saunters away.

"Why would you do that?" I sigh, agitated.

Miley blinks at me, clearly confused. At this point, I don't know who I feel sorrier for, me or her. "I thought you'd want to hang out with Oliver?"

"I—" Screw it. I've gift-wrapped enough hints as it is. No more freebies. "Yeah, sure. That's fine."

The rest of the magic act isn't so bad. Miley insists on getting her pamphlet autographed, and even though I think the gesture is beyond dorky, I bear it. We ride the bumper cars, roller coasters, a brightly colored rectangular box that flips you in the air in every which way direction, the Viking boat that swings side to side and makes your stomach drop, and even, after lots of wheedling on her part, the carousel. I picked out a regal tiger, and she sat down on the unassuming rabbit beside it.

Miley's handing my ass back to me. The object of the game is to use a BB rifle to shoot out the red star on our target card. I manage to dent one point at best, but Miley's star is utterly obliterated. "My Dad taught me," she explains, a smug grin curling her pretty mouth.

The game booth attendant gives her an appreciative whistle. He's slow in retrieving her prize, even though it's dangling a few inches over his greasy head. His eyes are working their way down her body, no doubt leaving slime trails. They come back up for seconds, and I want to ask him just how killer her legs look in that skirt, you know, to tease the poor fucker. "What's your name?" he asks, leaning against the counter.

A condescending laugh bubbles out of my stomach. There's no way this guy is trying to make a move on _my_ Miley. Is he fucking crazy? I could buy his release slip, and the shit eating grin right off his face. I grab her shoulder, maybe a little too forcefully because she winces, and tug her away.

Game booth boy glares. "What's your problem?" he calls.

I just flip him off. Miley's oblivious to the cock block, too busy inspecting her prize. It's a pudgy panda bear with a red bow tie.

We play a few more games. I excuse myself to buy water, and when I come back she's got her hands behind her and a sly grin on her face.

"What?"

She giggles, holding out a stuffed cat doll. It looks eerily similar to Diablo. The only thing missing are the soulless demon eyes, and stepping razor claws. "For me?" I laugh. "You shouldn't have." I accept the toy. "I mean, you _really_ shouldn't have." I take a menacing step towards her. Miley squeals and retreats. I chase after her. She ducks behind a trailer, and I promptly follow.

It's dark, and probably the only place within the carnival's radius untouched by artificial lights. My hand wraps around her arm and I stumble forward. We're suddenly sandwiched together, and the concept of breathing escapes me. Her chest heaves against mine, and our hearts are engaged in a thrashing tug-o-war. Miley's back is pressed flat against the trailer. She's got nowhere to run. I feel her eyes dart up to my face. They flicker over my eyes, and then down to my lips, where they linger. She touches my waist; running her fingers sideways until she's brushing over the exposed skin... Miley could easily drag her hand down a couple measly inches and _really_ make me moan. Her palm is searing.

She licks her lips, and tilts her head to the side, anticipating… something. I edge closer, tracing her cheeks and neck with my fingertips. I boldly trace them over her lips, and her tongue peeks out, licking my sensitive skin. She coaxes the tip of my finger into her mouth, and swirls her tongue around it. The slight action sends me to ecstasy. Miley doesn't know it, but her eyes are promising me unprecedented thrills. I groan and hiss all at once. I lean forward and steal a kiss, and she moans into my mouth. She tastes sweeter than I imagined. Maybe it's just in my head, but I swear her body's trembling. I deepen the kiss, softly sucking on her tongue.

"_Ahem_," interrupts a self-important security guard. He swings his flashlight towards us all sanctimoniously, and Miley scurries away from me. Her hand immediately goes to her mouth, like she's committed an unthinkable act.

She offers the guy a shaky apology and lurches past him, back into the carnival's organized chaos. "Take me home," is the only thing she says to me when I manage to catch up with her. She doesn't bother looking at me, or easing up on her frenzied pace.

"What? Why? I thought you were having a good time? What about Oliver?"

"I changed my mind. Please take me home."

I'm barreling back to Aunt Luce's estate, bemused, but not really at the same time. There's nothing too interesting to look at outside, but Miley's staring, rather intently, out the window. Each brash or well thought out attempt at segueing into a conversation has been politely, but curtly batted away, and my frustration is edging towards a boiling point. I read somewhere that colors foster moods, and as we pass the scorching red letters of a diner's snazzy insignia, I burst, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says plainly.

"Bullshit!"

Miley doesn't flinch or let on to any other human reaction. I swiftly make up my mind, tugging the car off the road and throwing it on park. "What are you doing?" she asks, almost annoyed.

"What are _you_ doing?"

"Nothing!" she folds her arms over her chest and continues to gaze steadily out the window. Lightning cracks across the sky and a sudden bevy of rain begins to smatter down.

I'm nearly ready to surrender when she quietly says, "Do you really want to know?" She runs a hand through her hair, and laughs like someone's dropped the biggest parcel of irony on her lap, or steamrolled all of her previous beliefs to hell. I don't voice an answer, afraid that it would backfire on me as detrimentally as a faulty firecracker. I clutch at the leather seat, and hitch my breath instead. Miley turns to me, and sighingly confesses, "I don't trust myself around you."

She's peering at me anxiously. I'm not sure what to say, so I reach out and press my palm to her cheek. She closes her eyes and leans into my hand. "It's okay," I whisper since it's as loud as my voice will go. "It's okay."

"No it isn't," she sniffles. "I can't be around you because all I want to do is kiss you."

"What's so bad about that?"

Her eyes open. "When I kiss you, all I want to do is touch you," she husks. "And when I touch you…" She pulls her cheek away from my palm and gazes back out the window.

I feel myself swallow, and readily place my hand over the gear stick. Miley stops me, climbing over the divider to straddle my lap. "Do you want to know what the worst part is?" she whispers, resting her hands on my face and pushing her forehead against mine.

"What?" I'm nearly breathless.

"_I don't care._" And then all I can feel are her lips, and the delicious ache winding through us, ribboning our bodies together.


End file.
